


Extra-Ordinary: My Life as Number Seven

by trashmovthtoziers



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Good Sister Vanya Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Vanya Hargreeves Needs A Hug, a rendition of vanya's book, only five's chapter though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 15:11:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18209978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashmovthtoziers/pseuds/trashmovthtoziers
Summary: An exert from Extra-Ordinary: My Life as Number Seven. Chapter Five / Number Five - The Face on Your Milk Cartons.





	Extra-Ordinary: My Life as Number Seven

**Author's Note:**

> god, this was quite the challenge. i don't usually write in first person (i honestly don't like it that much), so i'm sorry if this sounds a bit off. i kinda just needed a break from my other multi-chaps and, well, i love the umbrella academy, so this little thing was born. i have another one-shot with klaus and five coming, too, so hopefully i'll have that up soon.

I remember the day that Five disappeared with an almost perfect clarity (a surprise in itself, for most days I merely floated through the motions of my siblings’ vigorous training and my father’s tyrannous discipline). We were thirteen-year-olds living under an oppressive dictator, brain-washed and malleable. We had been called down for dinner after an evening of studying, summoned by the chime of Mother’s dinner-bell.  
  
We came bounding the stairs like we did almost every evening, as loud as a stampede of bulls, eager to see what Mother had made for dinner. I don’t remember what it was that she had made, but it was probably just as delicious as it always had been. A record was spinning on Father’s Victrola as we sat down in our assigned seats— Numbers One through Seven, I at the head of the table across from Father. I can’t remember if he had put on a classical record or one of his many German survival tapes by Herr Whatever-His-Name-Was, but I know that it had faded into the background like white noise.  
  
We weren’t allowed to speak during mealtimes (at least those shared with Father— breakfast was a pleasant, Father-free time), so we simply sat and ate the food that was put in front of us without complaint.  
  
Five shoveled down about three measly bites of his before his temper, I presume, got the better of him. He stabbed his dinner knife into the table. The plates had rattled— screamed, even. Father had lifted his head, peered down at Five over the curve of his hook-nose. And Five, adamantly as always, had demanded that Father let him time-travel, that he was ready to pushed further than ever before. That was typical of him— he always wanted to be pushed further and harder than the others, to prove that he was better and faster and smarter. He wanted to show them that he had more control over his complicated powers they did. It was childish superiority, though not as strong, life-altering, nor as all-encompassing as Luther’s.  
  
He was the smart one, rivaled only by Ben in that department. He spent many hours obsessing over his newfound ability to time-travel. I’m not sure how he discovered that element of his power, but I know that it had happened. Five had told Father that night that wanted to learn, but Father had shot him down. He had said that time-traveling was an extremely difficult, fickle thing that he was most definitely not ready for. Five had looked over at Father with a set, stone-cold expression of which made him look about fifty years older than he really was, had turned on his heels, and had left. We never saw him again.  
  
I think we all knew what had happened to Five even before Father had said it. Well, not exactly what happened to him (not even Father knew that), but what he had done. At first, no one was really all that alarmed, had expected him to find his way back after a while, but after about 48 hours, things started to kick in. Mother, through a fault in her programming, had called the authorities and had reported him missing. Father was positively furious when two police officers showed up at the door, note-books in hand, questions fresh on their tongues. He had sent Mother away with a scowl and a dismissive wave of his hand, muttering underneath his breath. She complied, and her eternal smile never faltered. Klaus and I were huddled at the top of the stairs, listening in as Father explained things to the two officers. “There’s no need to conduct a search,” he had said stiffly. “I know where he is.”  
  
“Then where is he, sir?” asked the deep-voiced officer.  
  
“ _When_ is he, you mean. You do understand that the children I’ve adopted have powers, correct?” They nodded curtly, a bob of their gold-brimmed hats. “Number Five can time-travel, but he isn’t very skilled at it. I can assure you, officers, that he made a mistake and got himself stuck somewhere in time. He was talking about it before he left. He might find his way back, but it’s doubtful.”  
  
“Shouldn’t you be more concerned about your son, sir? He’s still technically missing,” said the other officer meekly.  
  
“You don’t understand the physics of time-travel!” Father snapped at them. “He’s practically dead, and I’ve learned to accept it. I’m asking you not to conduct a search for him, do you understand? He’s lost in time, that’s all there is to it.”  
  
I looked over at Klaus to see his reaction. I remember that I had taken in his face then, storied the memory away, had watched his mouth fall unhinged in realization, his already pale-face drain of color. I think he was the only sibling that hadn’t quite made the connection between Five’s insistence to time-travel and his consecutive disappearance at that point. I don’t think he’d let himself believe it at first, too convinced that Five would come traipsing through the door as if nothing had happened, effectively deflecting and dodging any questions that came barreling toward him. I think that hearing Father admit it aloud was what sent Klaus to really believe it.  
  
I don’t know if the others had been listening too, hidden in corners, perhaps with their ears pressed to the walls, but I know that they’d all come to believe the same thing that Father did— Number Five was lost in time.  
  
Several days after the incident with the police, Father had called in the artist that had done so many of my siblings’ sit-ins. Luther had suggested that Father was going to make them do another four-hour-long sitting to which Klaus whined loudly, but they hadn’t been forced to do that until many months later.  
  
The artist whose name I’ve long since forgotten (I’m not even sure if I knew his name in the first place) had come inside, taken the cup of tea that Mother had offered him, and had sat before the last painting that he had done of the family. It was the last painting of the entire Umbrella Academy because of what would happen years later. It was without me, of course. I was never forced to do those sit-ins or pose for the photographs because was I really part of the Umbrella Academy if I didn’t have powers like my siblings? Can I even really call myself one of those ‘Umbrella Kids’ as everyone seems to call them?  
  
The artist had pulled out his sketchbook and had begun to draw something with his fancy-looking charcoal pencils. It wasn’t until he had come back several months later with a framed canvas underneath his arm did I see what he had drawn that day. Father had made quite the show of getting us all together to see the new painting in the parlor where everyone could see it. It was an eerily accurate portrait of Number Five, rendered from the family photo. Unsmiling, grave, and far more serious than he ever was (which was saying something), the painting gave off the illusion of Five staring straight through you and into your very soul. His eyes seemed to follow you around the room, unblinking all the while. I never knew why Father had been so adamant to have the painting made in the first place, but I suppose that it made sense now that I’ve seen Ben’s statue, stood alone in the courtyard.

Number Five’s disappearance, I can tell you definitively, was what sparked the split in our family, stuck an iron-like wedge between us. It was only solidified when Ben died, made concrete, but that’s another story for another chapter. I’m here to talk about Number Five— my brother without a name, merely a number. I think that the thought of having his name suddenly changed after having been called ‘Number Five’ for his entire life was unsettling and confusing for him.  
  
We were ten when Mother named us, and as she went down the line, pointing to us with our new respective names, Five stopped her before she could tell him what she wanted to call him. “I don’t need one, Mother,” he had said politely, shaking his head. “You can call me ‘Number Five’ like you always have.” Mother looked skeptical for only a moment before she moved on to name Number Six Ben, and eventually, me, Vanya. I’m not sure if Father ever approved of me being named along with my super-powered siblings (I’m not really sure if he approved of _any_ of us being named, but it had happened anyway), but I remember that I hadn’t cared then. I had been named like a normal child, crowned and sworn in, and I was ecstatic. Five didn’t seem to care about normality, though, and it was with an honorable indifference. Eventually, along with the rest of us, he had gotten used to calling everyone by their respective names and not their numbers. It was almost refreshing to have our numbers shortened down to something that rolled off the tongue better. Father, however, absolutely refused to call us by our new names, too hyper-focused on the so-called ‘mission’ of the Umbrellas. He addressed us all still by our numbers with a cold, dismissive normalcy.  
  
Father brought us all together, messed us up beyond repair, and let us run wild. I can’t tell you how many nights I lie awake thinking about the Umbrella Academy— about my brothers and my sister. I feel a special, distinct sort of anger toward Father for what he had done to us, and I thank God and the heavens above that we made it out of there. There is, of course, Luther, who’s the exception to the rule. As far as I know, he’s still there, hidden behind those cold, paper-thin walls, an old marionette that hadn’t been fortunate enough to escape from Father’s grasp.  
  
I remember how strange it felt to have Five gone. There was an empty desk in the classroom, an empty seat at dinner, an empty spot in line. We never sat in Five’s seat, never even _thought_ of it. It was his for the taking if he ever came back. He never did.  
  
I don’t know if Klaus has ever seen Number Five’s ghost, but something tells me that he would tell us if he ever did. Out of respect. Closure. Then again, nowadays, he’s too preoccupied to focus on anything to too long. It makes me wonder if Five’s still out there somewhere— some _when_. If he is, I hope he can find his way back to us.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u :)


End file.
